


5 Times Sherlock Surprises People With Pop Culture References & 1 Time Mycroft Does

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: & Sweet Transvestites, Edward Norton Crushes, Fight Club - Freeform, Hobbits, Pitate Kings, Sherlock Is A Little Shit, Sherlock gets to dance, Sitting in corners is just not on, don't forget your towel, holy crabby patties!, please don't blame me if the song gets stuck in your head, pop culture references, seminars suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-01 23:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20436764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: Another 5 + 1 because I don't think there are enough of them.Just a little small something to hopefully get the creative juices flowing once more.This is five times that Sherlock shocked someone with a pop culture reference and one time Mycroft did - which is pretty much the title of the story, because I clearly lack creativity these days.Any ways, hope you enjoy.NTW





	1. -5: The First Rule.

Lestrade waited for the two men to sit across from him and then waited further still for Sherlock to get that impatient look - the one that said ‘ _ Well, what do you need me for this time?’ _ \- before he spoke. It had been several days, bordering on a week, since Sherlock’s last case so he knew it wouldn’t take long for the look to come. That would be his cue to start explaining.

It was less than twenty seconds later that he heard himself asking, as he pushed a file across his desk, “Have you ever heard about Fight Clubs?”

Sherlock pulled the file open and instantly pulled the photos out. “I can’t say” he answered in a distracted mumble as he tilted a photograph sideways.

Lestrade looked to John, who looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a few days, and the man just gave a knowing shrug and half nod as he sipped his take-away coffee. Greg wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t be even mildly shocked if Watson had first hand experience of a fight club. The bastard was crazy enough to try it, even just once.

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock and began to explain. “It is a simple theory and exactly what the name implies. I don’t know if they are known by any other name, but the idea is that a group of people…”

Sherlock lowered the picture he was studying and looked directly at Greg. “You misunderstand me Graham. I am fully aware of what a fight club is, but if you were informed, as you say you are, about these clubs, then you would know about the first rule of Fight Club.”

The coffee that John had been drinking found itself sprayed over Greg’s desk as he proceeded to cough and splutter. Greg couldn’t bring himself to care - it was completely warranted. He was just as astonished as John was.

John hastily wiped his chin and looked up at Sherlock. “I’m sorry. Did you just make a movie reference?”

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and proceeded to study the non-existent grit under his nails, and if Greg didn’t know any better, he would swear there was the barest trace of pink colouring the man’s cheeks. “What can I say? I’m an Edward Norton fan.”

Greg was glad that John’s coffee cup was practically empty, as his hand involuntarily twitched, crushing the flimsy Styrofoam. Sherlock Holmes had made a joke, a movie reference and knew who Edward Norton was. 

Today was going to be a weird one.

  
  



	2. -4: It Must Be Thursday.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor John. He does try.

~o~

Seminars were never good, especially compulsory ones. They were especially never good when one had limited interest in the topic, or when one had the attention span of a clown with ADHD. All of that was preferable, though, than attending a seminar with Sherlock Holmes. 

But, that was what had to happen if either Sherlock or John wanted to attend any more crime scenes. 

To make matters worse, the seminar wasn’t on anything interesting, such as breakthroughs in forensic evidence or criminal profiling. No. The seminar was on Proper Police Procedure at Crime Scenes. (Apparently there had been some complaints of insensitivity and things maybe not being so by the book as what they should be.)

John didn’t think that any of the information would stick, as far as Sherlock was concerned, as face it - he did his own thing no matter what policy or procedure dictated - and he was certain that Sherlock would be kicked out, (no-doubt getting John kicked out also), within fifteen minutes of the lecture starting, which meant they would have to wait another month before they could attempt to re-sit the stupid seminar. 

It was why John had practically begged Mycroft to find a loophole to get them, or at least Sherlock, out of this ridiculous predicament. 

Mycroft had actually laughed and then walked away. (John was using sweetner in the bastard’s tea whenever he visited from now on.)

So here they were, at the London College of Communication, in lecture hall number three on a drizzly Saturday morning, looking for their name in a cramped row of hard red plastic seats.

John should be thankful that the seats were allocated and someone (probably Greg) had had the foresight to put Sherlock next to John.

Unfortunately, that was as far as the recommendations had gone, for as John spotted their names, he also spotted who was next to Sherlock. 

Sally Donovan. What was even worse was that they had placed Anderson directly in front of Sherlock. 

This was not going to end well for anyone.

Being the quick thinker that he was, John knew how to fix the problem immediately.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, as John lifted the name tag that said S Holmes and sat in the chair. 

“Sitting down” John replied, making a show of getting comfortable. 

“That name card is mine. Yours is one over.” 

“Then swap.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Just sit down, Sherlock. The lecturer will be in in a moment.”

Sherlock stood firm and looked down at John, his arms crossed over his chest. “Is this a test?”

John was confused “A test?”

“Yes, a test.”

Clearly, Sherlock wasn’t going to elaborate unless John requested it. “Sherlock, what are you on about?”

Sherlocks arms dropped from his chest, just so his hands could settle imperiously on his hips. “John, we are at a seminar, which the soul focus of is to bore us to death on the proper way to carry out procedures which are outdated, unnecessary and quite frankly, a complete waste of time, but mandatory all the same. As we arrived, we were told to find the seat with our name on it and to sit down. A fairly simple procedure to follow, as far as these things go, and now, not even two minutes into the seminar, you are asking me to break procedure. Is this a test?”

John restrained taking a deep breath and instead told himself that in three hours, they would be out of there. Of all the times Sherlock decided to do what he was told, now was the time he picked? 

“Sherlock, it is a seat. And technically, the seminar hasn’t started yet.”

“The seminar started the minute we walked through that door, and I intend to not get kicked out of the seminar, John, because that means I have to come back next month in order to get that stupid little certificate with my name on it. I am here now and do not endeavour to come back in twenty-eight days time. Move.”

John was not going to budge on this. “No.”

Clearly, neither was Sherlock. “Move.”

Deciding to try a different tactic, John indicated to the seat in front of him and started, “Sherlock, have you seen who….”

He was cut off. 

“Problem, gents?” 

Both men looked around and up to the person in the row in front of them. Greg looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but at the London College of Communication. 

“John won’t get out of my seat.” Sherlock dobbed sulkily.

John looked up at Greg and rolled his eyes in the direction of the seat next to him. Greg followed the gesture and his eyes widened as he read Sally’s name. John let out a small sigh of relief. With Greg on his side, they would be able to talk some sense into the six foot idiot in front of him. 

The relief didn’t last long as a knowing grin spread over Greg’s face. 

“Yeah, but proper procedure and all that, should probably move, mate” Greg said, his grin getting wider.

John could have killed him. Quite possibly with the box of donuts he was holding.

“See, John. I told you.” The smug smile on the Consulting Detectives face was enough to push any ounce of sympathy for the man out of Johns mind. If he got kicked out of the seminar, John was not going to care one little bit. In fact, if Sherlock needed to complain to someone, he could complain to Greg.

With a glare at Lestrade, John got up and slid over to his seat.

Refusing to look at either of them, John did his best to find a comfortable position to sit in, which was proving to be an impossible task. It was cut short by a familiar pained groan coming from his right. 

John looked up, past Sherlock (who had ignored the groan and was invested in a game of Angry Birds on his phone) to Sally Donovan who was looking from Sherlock to the name tag attached to her seat.

“You couldn’t have swapped with him” she hissed in a whisper, to John, behind Sherlock’s back as she sat down. The man completely ignored her, too engrossed in the game on his phone.

“Blame your boss” John hissed back and both glared at Lestrade who was having a very animated conversation with Anderson, about Hob Knobs and not taking any notice of the shit storm that was surely brewing, in the row directly behind them. 

~o~

It had only been 53 minutes since Professor Friedrich Molar stood up and started his slow and painful torture and John was scribbling point seven, as to why he should really not kill Sherlock Holmes, into his notebook.

Sherlock had, as instructed, powered off his phone and put it away. Within five minutes he was moaning about how bored he was, just under his breath. Greg shut him up with a donut, which Sherlock didn’t eat, but pulled the chocolate flakes off of and gently rested them in Anderson’s hair, so lightly that Anderson would be none the wiser until he found a melted mess there later on. 

Sally didn’t help. She kept nudging Sherlock’s leg and telling him to stop being a child, but it was all said with a laugh in her voice, which just egged Sherlock on.

When Sherlock ran out of chocolate flakes, he took to pulling off bits of donut and seeing how far he could flick them. The answer was eight rows down. John put an end to this by eating the remainder of his donut and told Greg that if he gave Sherlock another one, he wouldn’t intervene the next time Sherlock made one of his team members cry.

Sherlock had then powered on his phone, only to have it taken away by Sally. “If I have to listen, Freak, so do you.”

This pulled a sulk of epic proportions filled with filthy glares and whispered deductions, which only made Sally smile and Sherlock sulk more.

Sherlock then got bored of sulking and started flicking Johns hair. John silently slapped Sherlocks hand away and added another point to his list. 

Finally, Sherlock had had enough. He slumped in his chair, splayed his arms and legs out, ignoring both John and Sally who pushed his arms off of them with a hushed “_ oi _” and groaned out “Does anyone have any Vogon poetry?” 

John frowned while Sally inhaled the powdered sugar on the donut she was about to eat.

“Vogon Poetry?” She asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes, it is the third worst poetry in the galaxy and exponentially more entertaining than this.”

“Vogon…” John started, also in a hushed tone, only to be cut off by the whining child next to him.

“Yes. Vogons are a race of alien from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. Have you never heard of them?”

“I have, I just never assumed that you would have.”

“I did have a childhood, John.”

“Really, I just assumed you hatched from a man sized pod one cold morning.” Sally interjected, brushing icing sugar off of her fingers.

“Is there a problem back there?” The lecturer called out, breaking up the surreal little conversation. All three sat up straight and looked ahead.

“All good, sorry.” John called back and then gave Lestrade, who was looking back at them with a mock glare on his face, the finger.

The lecture continued and John assumed he had heard the last about Vogon poetry and anything related to. 

He was wrong.

“You look like him.” Sherlock said, leaning in close enough so that only John could hear him.

“I look like who?” John asked, annoyed and pushing Sherlock back into his own space.

“Arthur Dent” came the matter-of-fact reply.

“Sorry?” John was now thoroughly confused. 

“The main character from the movie. Arthur Dent, he was played by the actor...”

“I know who he is, and no, I don’t look like him. I look nothing like him” John snapped a bit too loudly, realising that Sherlock was still going on about the bloody movie.

Sherlock threw him a knowing look which John ignored in favour of listening to Professor Molar telling John that if he did not calm down, he would be escorted from the lecture hall and would have to sit the seminar at an alternative time. 

Again, John apologised and sat back in his seat, kicking the back the back of Gregs chair, whom he could hear snickering from the row in front.

Valiantly trying to think of point nine as to why he should not kill Sherlock Holmes, John didn’t notice Sherlock moving until his hand was around Johns. John jumped at the unexpected contact and then looked down at what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock had curled John’s hand into a fist and was now pulling his thumb up. It took John a few second, and was not until his arm was extended out in front of him, for him to realise that Sherlock has put his hand in a typical hitchhiker’s signal.

Quickly, John snatched his hand back. “I do not look like fucking Arthur Dent” he snarled, apparently a bit too loudly. 

By now Greg was shaking with suppressed laughter. Anderson was confused. Sally didn’t know whether to laugh at the situation (clearly what she wants to do) or scowl at Sherlock. 

John was being asked to leave the hall. 

Snatching up his notepad, John stood up from his seat with full intentions of scraping his entire list.

He was going to fucking kill Sherlock Holmes.

“Don’t forget your towel” Sherlock called out, just loud enough for John, and a few surrounding people to hear. 

John flipped the bastard the bird and made a silent vow to get both him and Greg back, for Greg was no longer suppressing his laughter, as he stalked out of the lecture hall.


	3. Let It Go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel Sherlock's pain!

It was a good evening. A case had been solved and no one was injured or in jail. Mycroft had texted Sherlock to say that their parents were postponing their trip to London until January and there were fresh toes in the fridge. Rosie was in bed, and asleep, leaving both Sherlock and John stretched out in their respective chairs, bellies full on take-out and wine. The fire was crackling in the hearth and there was an overall pleasantly lazy feel to the evening.

Both men were sitting quietly in their seats, letting their food digest when Sherlock mumbled out “Don’t know if I’m elated or I’m gassy, but I’m somewhere in that zone.”

A confused frown descended on John’s relaxed face and he cracked open one eye, from where they had slowly drifted shut, and peered at the man across from him. “Did you just quote Frozen?”

A rather pained frown formed on Sherlocks brow and both of his eyes clenched tighter. “Yes” he practically whimpered.

“How do you even know...?” John was too flabbergasted to end that sentence and his other eye opened as he more carefully studied his friend, wondering if he had dozed off and this was some dream.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes and a look of someone who had given up on all hope befell his face. “John, have you met your daughter. Between Bloody Elsa and Moana there is no life for her. She has watched that blasted movie, this week alone, four times. And it is only Tuesday. It gets stuck in my head and I Just. Can’t. Let. It. GO!”

Again he closed his eyes, and his head drooped forward as if in defeat. “I blame you for having a child.”

John bit back the chuckle, knowing full-well Sherlock’s pain, even if he didn’t feel it quite as bad and then said the only thing he could think of that might even help his friend get out of his Frozen rut. “ What can I say, except you’re welcome.”

John was met, with a squishy Olaf hitting him in the face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say, I have never seen Frozen - the damned song is enough to put me off for life - so I trolled through movie quotes for what seems like forever (but was probably only 10 - 15 minutes) looking for a usable quote. This was the result.


	4. I Can't Hear You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where did the pineapple come from???  
Just like the show in question, there is no logic here either.

John stopped and stared, not quite sure what he was seeing.

“ _ I can’t hear you _ ” Sherlock sang out from the hospital bed, a small medical sponge in his hand.

John still didn’t know what to say. Where the fuck did the pineapple come from?

“ _ Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? _ ” Sherlock sung when John didn’t answer. When he left, Sherlock was unconscious. He had only been gone twenty minutes. 

“What the fuck have they got you on?” John asked, still not going any further into the room. The ridiculously large, and abnormally happy smile on Sherlock’s face was, to be honest, scaring him a bit.

“It’s Spongebob Square Pants, John. You know…”

“Nope” was Johns reply. “I definitely do not know.”

“Oh, he is square and has pants and lives in a pine…”

“...apple under the sea, yeah I got that much, thanks.”

Suddenly, Sherlocks smile got impossibly larger.

“You can be my Patrick” he cried out triumphantly. John was still confused, but happy to see the smile shrink. “No. He is too stupid. You can be my Gary.” The smile widened again.

“Gary?”

“My pet snail.” Sherlock was clearly pleased with himself.

John was not.

It was at that time that Greg took the opportunity to walk in, looking haggard and ready to give up on life. John knew how he felt.

Sherlocks smile dropped again when he saw Lestrade.

“Yeah, thanks, it’s a joy to see you too” mumbled Greg. Sherlock ignored him and looked back at John.

“Oh, John. You will have to be Patrick, because I already have my very own Gary.”

Greg looked to John. John didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an arse, so sounding like an idiot, he told Lestrade what had happened since going to get coffee.

“Right. Where’d the pineapple come from?” John just shrugged as Sherlock slurred out “..._nautical nonsense be something you wish, then drop on the deck and flop like a fish_…”

“Oh, good lord, not this drivel again.”

Both John and Greg turned around to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, a pained expression on his face.

“You know what he’s on about?”

With a brief close of his eyes, presumably to collect himself, Mycroft opened his eyes, looked at his brother, still singing away in his hospital bed and explained. “Yes, after his first stint in rehab, he laid on my couch for a week watching the show over and over again. It was one of the worst seven days of my life. He kept texting me quotes and pictures.”

Finally Sherlock stopped singing and when John and Greg turned to look back at him, Sherlock was looking at his brother with a childish level of contempt.

“And there is Squidward” he mumbled, sticking his tongue out at his brother.


	5. -1: God Wouldn’t Have Given You Maracas If He Didn’t Want You To Shake ’Em.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're all about to have the time of their life...well, Rosie is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written a couple of times, originally from Johns POV and was then re-altered again, right at the last minute.  
NTW

Arthur stood, listening to his son prattle on about Edna’s latest bout of plastic surgery, while watching as John, sitting in the corner of the room, tried to hold onto the wriggling toddler on his lap. It appeared it was getting harder and harder to do so and the fact that his leg was in a cast, probably wasn’t helping make matters any better. Every time she lurched forward, to run to where all the people were dancing, John moved forward with her, holding her back and wincing as she clearly put pressure on his leg.

Arthur and his wife, Celia, had been surprised - pleasantly so - when the doctor had called to say that he and Sherlock would indeed be attending their 50th Wedding anniversary. That had been a little over a month ago and John had been in very good spirits when he called, having an hour long conversation with Celia; something that happened with neither of their sons. So when the trio from Baker Street had rocked up two days ago, both the Holmes parents had been concerned to see John’s left right in a cast. 

They had also been delighted, because it had given the two elderly people a chance to dote on Rosie, like they would a grandchild of their own; again, an opportunity that was never likely to arrive from either of their sons.

Since the boys had arrived, Arthur had hardly seen much of his youngest son (nothing unusual there. There were things to investigate and bee hives to study) and tonight had been no different. Sherlock had disappeared as soon as the lemon meringues had been cleared away. But tonight, Arthur and Celia had been busy with guests, so John was left to tend to Rosie on his own and that included trying to stop an overly excited Rosie from running onto the dancefloor and get stepped on or tripped over by people who may possibly have enjoyed a few too many glasses of wine.

It was why, when Arthur had finally spotted his youngest, herded into the corner by Edna Harris, who was animatedly nattering onto him, that Arthur quickly made his way over and informed Edna that Charlie Nesbit was looking for her by the buffet. The second she had left, his son had opened up and the deductions that he had so valiantly held in for the sake of his parents, (John really had been a good influence on the man), flew from his lips.

But Arthur didn’t care how many nips and tucks Edna had had now. It was time that his son focused his attention where it was needed. 

“Yes, that’s very interesting indeed, Son, but have you talked to John since dessert?”

“Of course not. I have been trying to avoid all of Mothers friends, but then Mycroft dragged me back in here. John is fine. John is…” Sherlock’s diatribe stopped as his head swivelled in the direction of his doctor friend and an unimpressed look crossed his features. “Oh, not. That is not right” he said, and marched in the direction of John and his daughter. Quickly, Arthur followed behind, curious as to the problem at hand, for if there was a scene, Celia would want details.

Arthur caught up to Sherlock, where he had stopped in front of John, just in time to hear him say “Nobody puts Baby in a corner” and then he plucked a squealing Rosie off of Johns lap and twirled onto the dance floor with her mounted on his hip.

Arthur smiled as he watched his son dance with Rosie and then looked to John, who seemed speechless. 

“That boy spent all summer watching that movie over and over again, when he was eleven, until he had Mr Swayze’s moves down pat. When my mother-in-law saw that he was teaching himself ‘ _ Sinful thrusting and gyrating _ ’ as she put it, she had a fit. I think he was aiming for a heart attack, myself” and then, with a gentle pat on Johns shoulder, he went and joined his wife, who was beckoning him from the next table, no doubt asking for all the details on what had just happened.


	6. +1: Don’t Dream It, Be It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is annoyed, John is offended, Greg is amused and Mycroft is...well, Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes for what seemed to be the hundredth time since his brother had started up the stairs.

“Yes,  _ Mycroft _ . I understand.  _ Absolute discretion _ . Why are you still here?”

“Because little brother” (another eye roll …. Seriously, if this kept up, Sherlock’s eyes were going to pop out of his head.) “I know you. You like to show off. If those files are not swapped, with the transaction going seamlessly, and no-one the wiser, then there will, without a doubt, be a brand new war, and we know what that does to the traffic.”   
Sherlock huffed. Of course he liked to show off. He was a show-off. It was what they did. They showed off. But if attending Mycrofts stupid little Halloween ball earned him two free-passes from having to take their parents to the theatre, then it was worth it. A bit. Not enough not to complain about it, which is why he was about to open his mouth and demand to be able to pick his own costume, but alas, his brother beat him to it.

“Rest assured, Sherlock, you will be allowed to go as the Pirate King, scourge of the seven seas.” At this Mycroft finally turned his attention away from Sherlock and onto his flatmate, who was wiping down the latest mess made by his offspring. “John, you shall be going as Frodo.”

At this, John stopped wiping down the table and looked up at Mycroft. “Frodo?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied in that over-superior tone that made him think everyone was pleased to do as he demanded. “The hobbit.”

John straightened up to Military standards (usually never a good sign, in Sherlock’s opinion) and turned to fully face the annoying Holmes brother. “Actually,  _ the _ hobbit was Bilbo, Frodo was  _ a _ hobbit.”

Mycroft was clearly annoyed at having being questioned about his orders, as he took a short, sharp breath through his overly large nostrils and moved his hands to gently grip the armrests of the chair he was sitting in. “Nevertheless. You are Frodo.”

John now crossed his arms across his chest. (Sherlock took this to mean impending war and suddenly took a bit more interest.) “Why do I have to be Frodo and he gets to be a poncy pirate king?”

“Pirate Kings are not poncy.” Sherlock's interest had now turned to offence. But no one seemed to care as his brother continued to address John, John was still glaring at Mycroft and Rosie, who was using Lestrade’s legs as a bouncy castle was still giggling at something Gavin was doing.

“You look like a hobbit” Mycroft said.

John practically spluttered as his hands formed fists in their crossed position. “I do not!” 

“You are the right height, mate.” Lestrade said, finally contributing to the conversation, while still holding the toddler balanced on his thighs, steady.

“Fuck you Greg. I’m not short” John shot back and the whole room descended into silence as three people looked at him with varied looks of bemusement on their faces. Even his daughter stared at him is silence as she sucked on her bottom lip.

“Fuck you all. Every single one of you” Joihn finally replied, his arms uncrossing so he could point to each of the men individually, and then moving to place his hands on his hips, a huffy look on his face. 

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. “Filthy little hobbitses” he hissed in a voice that sounded an awful lot like Smeagal, from the movie that John loved to watch.

At this, Greg snorted back a laughter and even his brother let a small, amused smile grace his lips. John just glared at him, but clearly decided that he had lost the battle.

“Fine. I’ll be bloody Frodo” he huffed and then added “Greg can be my Sam.”

“Why do I have to be Sam?” Lestrade whined, holding Rosie steady, as he prepared for a verbal battle with John.

“Because I have to be Frodo.”

“That’s not even a reason. Actually, I’m not even invited. Why do I need to be there.”

“Because, If I have to go to some wanky ball looking like a twat, so do you.”

Whilst Sherlock was enjoying the back and forth between John and Lestrade (even Rosie seemed wide eyed as she turned her head from one to the other as they argued), Mycroft had clearly had enough. “Gentlemen. The plans are laid and yes, Gregory, an extra pair of intelligent eyes,” (Sherlock couldn’t stop the snort, but no one paid him any mind), “may come in handy. I think I can find something more fitting than Mr Gamgee for you, though. I shall let Anthea send you the details.”

“Oi, why does he get something more fitting” John cried, throwing his hands up in frustration.

By now, Sherlock had lost interest and Mycroft was not repeating the conversation again. He stood up, straightened his jacket and said “Thank you gentlemen. I assure that you shall arrive promptly and according to dress. I shall see you all Saturday evening.”

Mycroft was almost to the door when he was stopped by John. Sherlock was rather fond of his flatmate, but right then, he could have killed him with the dishrag that he had left abandoned on the table. 

“What about you?” John asked as Mycroft came level with him. Mycroft turned to John and cocked a questioning eyebrow in that way that Sherlock knew bitched at Johns nerves. But apparently not today.

“What shall his highness be wearing?” John asked. At this point, Sherlock knew he really didn’t care about the conversation anymore, but before he could completely tune out a small smirk, sinister in nature, lifted the corners of Mycroft’s mouth as he picked up his umbrella. “I shall leave you waiting in antici...pation” he answered as he walked out the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes once more as his brother started to make his way down the stairs. “That’s not why Aunty Iris left you her pearls” he called out. He was met with a chuckle and the sound of the downstairs door closing.

“I don’t get it” John said to the empty doorway. 

Greg just stared, speechless, at the door, Rosie forgotten to drawl on his jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, my little lovelies. The end of this little fic. It was short, pointless, mildly amusing (I hope) and has moved my bit into gear to continue working on one of my other fics.   
Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos' and messaging. Your love and support are like warm mittens for my heart.   
I hope you all have a lovely day.  
NTW


End file.
